


Sing For Us

by inexplicifics



Series: Sugar and Spice Bingo [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Consensual Non-Consent, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, Multi, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: Jaskier gets a bit creative, and his lovers are only too happy to cooperate...A traveling bard gets dragged before a barbarian lord, and made to earn his freedom with more than just his songs.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Sugar and Spice Bingo [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096091
Comments: 23
Kudos: 364
Collections: Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo





	Sing For Us

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE MIND THE "CONSENSUAL NON-CONSENT" TAG; this isn't non-con but it's played pretty straight in-scene.

( _“How do you come up with these things?”_

_“Well, I am a bard; creativity is in the job description, dear heart.”_ )

*

Jaskier wrenches at the ropes around his wrists, and manages to do nothing but scrape his skin raw. The man on his left chuckles, a low and filthy sound, and his hand tightens on Jaskier’s arm, enough that it’s going to leave bruises. The man on his right makes no sound at all, which is almost scarier, and _his_ hand is broad enough that it wraps all the way around Jaskier’s upper arm, like Jaskier is a child or a toy.

It would be better if Jaskier could talk. It would be better if Jaskier could _see_.

The men shove Jaskier down to his knees, and one of them yanks away the blindfold, and Jaskier immediately reassesses his previous thought. It is _not_ better to be able to see, because _oh gods he’s so fucked_.

He’s kneeling in front of what he can only call a throne, though it’s far less elaborate than most such furniture: a great, heavy wooden chair, carved with wolves’ heads at the ends of the arms and a third wolf’s head adorning the back, its eyes inlaid with topazes, glaring down at him with the same yellow gleam as the eyes of the man seated in the throne. The man in question is _terrifying_ : broad-shouldered and tall, with the sort of musculature Jaskier’s only ever seen on professional soldiers only more so; his skin is pale and seamed with countless scars, his hair as white as snow - not from age, Jaskier doesn’t think - and his eyes are molten gold. He’s shirtless, his shoulders draped in a cloak made of a wolf’s pelt as white as his hair, and there’s a sword leaning against the side of the throne, easy to hand. Jaskier’s eyes catch on it. It’s not sheathed: a single gleaming line of deadly steel, unadorned and made not for decoration but for death.

“What’s this?” the throned man asks, voice low and rough. Jaskier shivers.

“Caught him snooping around,” the man on Jaskier’s left says. Jaskier glances at him out of the corners of his eyes. He’s a bit smaller than the man on the throne, though frankly not by much, with the same sort of fighter’s physique; his hair is a startling red, and his eyes are topaz-yellow. He has a nasty sort of smirk on his lips. “Figured he wasn’t up to any good.”

Jaskier wants to protest - he wasn’t making any trouble, he _wasn’t_ , he had no intention of doing so - but the gag prevents him from making more than a very small sound. It’s still enough to render him the focus of three pairs of yellow eyes.

The man to his right - a _big_ man, broader in the shoulder than either of the others, with dark hair and a truly astonishing set of facial scars, and amber eyes - reaches out and slips a finger under the fabric of the gag, breaking the knot with a single swift yank. Jaskier spits out the wad of cloth that has been keeping him silent.

“I swear, I wasn’t up to any mischief,” Jaskier says, wishing he had a bit of water to moisten his dry mouth. “I’m a traveling bard, I was merely passing through, I mean no harm -”

The throned man raises a hand, and Jaskier closes his mouth sharply. “A bard,” the throned man says.

“He _did_ have a lute,” the big man to Jaskier’s right says reluctantly. “And I’ve never seen anyone wearing clothing like this _but_ bards - not for traveling, anyhow.”

“Hm,” says the throned man. “Pretty little songbird.” He lifts the sword idly in one hand, and sweeps it in a graceful arc which ends with the shining point just barely grazing Jaskier’s throat beneath his chin. Jaskier raises his chin a bit, trying not to breathe too hard. “Let’s hear you sing.”

Jaskier swallows. “Y-yes, my lord,” he says. “If I could - if I could have a little water first?”

The throned man raises an eyebrow, but thank _fuck_ he takes the sword away, propping it on the side of the throne again, and the big man steps away for a moment and returns with a mug of water, tipping it one slow sip at a time into Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier decides he likes the big man, and tries to express his immense gratitude with nothing but his eyes.

“Does my lord have a song preference?” Jaskier asks when the big man steps away again. The throned man shrugs, a roll of powerful shoulders that conveys absolute indifference.

“Give us something with a bit of adventure to it, little songbird,” the redhead suggests.

Jaskier nods. _The Kitchen Knight_ is an old song, one he could recall blind drunk or half out of his mind with terror, which is awfully relevant just now. “ _To Arthur’s court came a nameless lad, to ask the king three boons,_ ” he begins, and the throned man lounges back and listens with a faintly bored air.

Jaskier finishes with a flourish, and the big man and the redhead both clap. “Well, Wolf?” the big man says. “I think he’s proven his bonafides, don’t you?”

The aptly-named Wolf leans forward in his throne, curling one finger beneath Jaskier’s chin and tilting his head up until Jaskier has no choice but to meet his eyes.

( _Geralt raises one pale eyebrow just a fraction; Jaskier nods, the motion just as miniscule._ )

“Hm,” Wolf says. “Pretty mouth on you, little songbird. What else can it do?”

Jaskier swallows hard, apprehension and arousal coiling in his stomach.

“I’ll make you a deal, little songbird,” Wolf purrs. “If you can please us all tonight, tomorrow I will set you free. My word on it.”

Jaskier swallows again and licks his lips. “And - ah - how may I please my lord?”

Wolf smiles, a slow wicked thing, and leans back again, reaching down unhurriedly to unlace his trousers and pull out one of the more impressive pricks Jaskier has ever seen. “Put that pretty mouth to use,” he suggests.

Jaskier shuffles forward on his knees, grateful for the thick fur cushioning the stone floor, until he’s kneeling between Wolf’s feet, shoulders bracketed by sturdy thighs. Wolf watches him, expression utterly unreadable, as Jaskier leans forward - but he does offer his prick instead of making Jaskier attempt some sort of clumsy method of getting at it without the use of his hands, so Jaskier supposes that’s something.

Jaskier is, in fact, good with his mouth at things other than singing, and Wolf is surprisingly clean and sweet-smelling, for some sort of barbarian lord; he tastes of salt and musk and nothing else. And he rests one big hand on the back of Jaskier’s head, but he neither pulls at Jaskier’s hair nor pushes him down, forcing him to take more than he’s ready for; instead, he seems perfectly happy to let Jaskier set his own pace. Jaskier, in his turn, pulls out all the stops - this has got to be the best blowjob he’s ever given, and by the gods, it _will_ be.

He’s quite proud of himself when Wolf starts to breathe a little harder; prouder still when Wolf’s breath catches in something Jaskier can’t describe as anything but a very quiet moan. The hand in his hair tightens, just a little - still not pulling, but definitely not relaxed anymore - and Wolf’s hips start to move in tiny shifts, not thrusting but _wanting_ to. Jaskier hums and wriggles his tongue and sucks harder, letting his head dip lower on every pass, and earns himself another very quiet moan, gritted out through clenched teeth. And then, finally, Wolf gives a small gasp and spills, bitter and salty, across Jaskier’s tongue.

Jaskier swallows as much as he can and sits back on his heels, licking his lips and looking up to meet Wolf’s half-lidded, sated gaze.

“You _are_ good with that mouth, little songbird,” Wolf purrs. “Come here.”

Jaskier stands, a little shaky from being on his knees so long, and Wolf curls his hands around his hips and turns him around before tugging him down onto Wolf’s lap; Wolf’s still-hard prick nestles against the cleft of his ass, the thin silk of his pants not providing much of a barrier to the more-than-human heat of Wolf’s body.

The other two men are watching Jaskier hungrily. The redhead licks his lips; the big man has a hand cupped over the prominent bulge in his trousers. Wolf chuckles, low and menacing, right in Jaskier’s ear. “Bend forward, little songbird, and up on your knees,” he says, and Jaskier struggles into place, kneeling over Wolf’s lap and trying hard to keep his balance with his hands still bound behind him.

The redhead and the big man step forward, each offering something not to Jaskier but to Wolf. The redhead has a dagger, holding it out hilt-first; the big man has a little jar of some sort. Wolf takes both. Jaskier shivers with fear - Wolf doesn’t need a dagger to hurt him, but having a man with a knife at his back is _not_ reassuring in the slightest.

Wolf runs a finger gently down the back of Jaskier’s trousers. “Pretty,” he murmurs, and then, “Hold still, little songbird.”

Jaskier freezes, trying not to even _breathe_. The dagger slips through the silk of his clothes without catching at all, slicing its way first down one hip and then down the other, and his trousers split and fall away, leaving him bare to Wolf’s hungry gaze.

“Pretty,” Wolf says again, and strokes a possessive hand over the curve of Jaskier’s ass. “Let my brothers have a taste of that clever mouth of yours, little songbird.”

Jaskier nods, shivering a little, and the redhead steps forward, unlacing his trousers. He is also well-endowed, though perhaps not so much as his lord, and he grins down at Jaskier and strokes himself, showing off.

_(Lambert tilts his head, just a little. “Alright, then, songbird?” Jaskier gives him a brief and rather cheeky wink._ )

Jaskier bends his head to lap at the tip of the redhead’s prick, and as he does so, one of Wolf’s fingers - blessedly slick with _something_ \- brushes against his entrance. Jaskier squeaks a little, and the redhead chuckles. Jaskier licks his lips and focuses on the task he’s been given, letting the tip of the redhead’s prick slide into his mouth even as Wolf presses the very tip of one blunt finger into his ass. Surprisingly gently, actually. It doesn’t hurt at all.

The redhead is also very clean and tastes of nothing worse than simple lust, and though he tangles his hands in Jaskier’s hair, he doesn’t pull nor try to guide Jaskier’s head, just rocks his hips in slow, astonishingly gentle thrusts that don’t even threaten Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier applies himself to making the redhead just as happy with his services as Wolf was, trying hard not to twitch and shiver as Wolf slides his finger slowly and gently into Jaskier’s ass to the knuckle and then crooks it, finding Jaskier’s sweet spot unerringly. Jaskier moans around his mouthful.

“ _Fuck_ ,” the redhead groans. “Godsdamned sinful mouth on you, songbird.”

Jaskier moans again as Wolf twists his finger, and the redhead shudders. “Fucking _hell_.” He keeps swearing, a multilingual stream of filth which is quite genuinely impressive, increasing steadily in vehemence as Jaskier coaxes him closer and closer to his peak, until finally he knots his hands in Jaskier’s hair and thrusts in not quite deeply enough to make Jaskier gag and peaks with a bitten-out gasp of, “Sweet _fuck_.”

Jaskier chokes a little at the sudden rush of spend, and some of it spills out of his mouth and slicks his chin as the redhead pulls away. The big man is abruptly right _there_ , looping a hand under Jaskier’s arm and pulling him up until the big man can kiss him, licking the taste of Wolf and the redhead’s spend from his lips. Wolf chuckles and pulls his finger away, coming back scant moments later with two, and Jaskier whines into the kiss at the slight burn of the stretch.

The big man makes a low, pleased noise, and keeps kissing him, swallowing each moan and whine as Wolf stretches Jaskier open. Wolf takes his time, letting Jaskier adjust to two fingers before he adds a third - really, he’s rather politer than some lovers Jaskier has had. How odd, to find such courtesy in a barbarian.

“Come here, little songbird,” Wolf says at last, and tugs gently at Jaskier’s hips. Jaskier lets himself be guided carefully back and down until the very tip of Wolf’s prick touches his entrance.

( _“Ready?” Eskel whispers. Jaskier nods and gives Eskel a bright grin._ )

“Sing for us,” Wolf purrs, and pulls Jaskier down.

Jaskier cries out, a high shocked note, at being _filled_ , Wolf’s prick feeling even larger in his ass than it did in his mouth. Wolf chuckles darkly, and pushes gently at Jaskier’s back until he bends forward. The big man is unlacing his trousers already, and oh _fuck_ , he’s even larger than Wolf is. He curls a huge, gentle hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and coaxes him forward and down. Jaskier opens his mouth and lets the big man’s prick begin to sink very slowly into his mouth.

“Move for us,” Wolf murmurs, and Jaskier moans and begins to rock between Wolf’s prick and the big man’s, whimpering a little as Wolf’s prick rubs unerringly across his sweet spot and the big man’s prick fills his mouth, heavy enough to make Jaskier’s jaw ache.

“Fuck,” the big man whispers. “The _mouth_ on you, my gods.”

“Clever, pretty mouth on our little songbird,” the redhead agrees. “How’s his ass, Wolf?”

“Magnificent,” Wolf says, stroking a hand up Jaskier’s back to wrap it around Jaskier’s bound wrists, and urging him to move a little more quickly, seat himself a little more fully. Jaskier moans with each movement, and the big man bites his lip and lets out little whines as Jaskier does his utmost to make this blowjob just as good as the first two, and Wolf is growling, soft and thrillingly dangerous.

The big man peaks first, hand tightening on the back of Jaskier’s neck, and as soon as he’s stopped spilling he hauls Jaskier upright and kisses him again, and Wolf wraps both hands around Jaskier’s hips and begins to _thrust_ , hammering upwards as he hauls Jaskier down. The big man reaches down with one enormous hand and wraps it around Jaskier’s prick where it bobs disregarded against his stomach, and Jaskier wails into the kiss, arching into the big man’s touch desperately.

“There we go, songbird, sing for us,” Wolf purrs, and hauls him down hard one more time, prick throbbing hotly as he peaks. The big man twists his hand ruthlessly, and Jaskier cries out again as pleasure hits him like an earthquake, leaving him draped shaking and limp against Wolf’s broad chest, bound hands trapped between them.

“Good little songbird,” Wolf murmurs in his ear. “You sing very prettily indeed.”

*

Jaskier wakes up tucked safely between his Wolves in the enormous bed in Geralt’s room; he is clean and his wrists have been bandaged where the rope chafed them. Geralt is on one side of him and Eskel on the other, and Lambert sprawled between his legs with his head pillowed on Jaskier’s stomach.

“Good morning, my loves,” Jaskier says, and gets two kisses immediately from the witchers on either side of him.

“Was last night everything you hoped, then?” Geralt murmurs.

“It was _wonderful_ ,” Jaskier says, smiling dreamily. “Absolutely perfect. Where _did_ you get that chair?”

Eskel chuckles. “Used to be Rennes’. Found it back in a storage room, dusty as hell. Took me’n Lambert half the day to get it clean.”

“Worth it,” Jaskier says. “It really made the whole scene.”

“It did,” Lambert agrees, and grins up at Jaskier. “Hey, next time d’ _you_ want to be the king, with captive Wolves brought to kneel before you?”

“Ooh, we’ll have to get some ‘magical’ collars or something, to explain how I could possibly control you,” Jaskier muses.

Geralt laughs quietly, tucking his face against Jaskier’s throat. “Insatiable,” he mutters.

“Well, I have three gorgeous witchers to inspire me,” Jaskier teases gently, freeing a hand from the tangled sheets so he can stroke Geralt’s hair. “Three gorgeous witchers who ravished me very well last night.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, nuzzling Jaskiers throat. Eskel kisses Jaskier softly and thoroughly. Lambert puts his head back down on Jaskier’s stomach and makes a soft, smug sound.

Jaskier starts humming _The Kitchen Knight_ , soft and low, and gets his other hand untangled so he can pet Eskel’s hair too. At some point he’ll want to get up and find some food, but for right now, he’s quite content to stay right here, among his Wolves.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sugar & Spice Bingo prompt "Bondage," and beta'd by the superlative RoS13.


End file.
